Chapter 3: Midnight Heist

A heist is fairly similar to a robbery, the only aspects
required are a team of trained burglars with varying skills,
a carefully devised plan, a fortified institution and a highly
valuable object to illegally retrieve. For better results, make
sure to have a magical advantage.


Despite the frankly horrific decoration and the annoyingly idiotic inhabitants, Sherlock could admit Auradon did have its noticeable upsides; even if only to make doing evil a lot easier. Because for every soft pastel blue with mint green bed sheets and fake, cheery smiles, there was the easiest-to-hack data base about every magical relic guarded on the kingdom, conveniently mentioning each artefact's location along with the estimated time of arrival to said destination from the user's standing point. The rebel found he liked the place solely because of the fact of how desperately it seemed to be begging to be brought down by someone else.

His first impression of the land had not been particularly good; he appeared to have been terribly accurate about his assessment of the country and its citizens. Despite harbouring more dirty secrets than anyone in the Island ever could, they still managed to be boringly straightforward about it. Their desperate need to be accepted by their peers and the strong reliance on everyone else's opinion made them ashamed of an incredible amount of ridiculous things, —or at least see them as unacceptable.

The Royals were no different, it seemed that having a title of nobility made nothing to make the bearer's character more… noble. They were all an open book to him, and so far, the only person he had encountered whose character seemed completely congruent with his own beliefs was Prince John. Who, despite being credulous enough to really think this was going to end in any way other than disaster, had managed to prove in the span of one conversation people in the kingdom didn't necessarily need to be morons beyond help. Sherlock was still deciding if that made him more or even less tolerable than all his peers.

The sun was already down, and the absence of blinding, hot light made the room the least bit more bearable, if one were to ask the violet-haired boy —the amount of sun-screen he would need if they stayed any longer would be laughable— Sherlock couldn't wait to go back to the island were it was always grey and gloomy. Lestrade had come bounding down the hall and emptied the contents of his bag on top of the plush comforter. "Someone had fun?" Irene asked, getting up from her seat at the desk and inspected the various items scattered across Greg's bed.

"It's called stealing." He answered, taking a confident stance and popping his knuckles in satisfaction. The smug grin on his face was prominent since they had arrived to the castle, he smiled at Irene and she replied with rolling eyes.

Sherlock picked up an expensive looking box and inspected its insides. "What is the purpose?" He asked, flicking his grey eyes up to gauge perfectly the other's expression.

Lestrade's eyebrows drew together in confusion at the question, and he considered his answer. "Well, it's like buying whatever we want," He explained, not entirely sure why he had to clarify the act to someone who had clearly done his fair share of burglary on his own right. "Except it's free." He said and shrugged his shoulders.

"Okay," Came the younger boy's reply, slow and with a very subtle hint of edginess. "So, you could do that, or…" He said running his fingertips across the smooth surface of the case in his hands. Suddenly, he stopped and let the item fall from his grasp carelessly. "You could leave all of this nonsense here and pick it up when we take over the kingdom." Sherlock smiled sarcastically, his eyes sparkling and his lips pursing in a satisfied smirk.

Irene laughed amusedly, uncrossing her legs and taking a stray wave of her indigo hair and trying to replace it on its place. "You are starting to sound like Moriarty." She offered, while Lestrade kept retrieving more stolen goods from his backpack.

"Goodness forbid!" Sherlock gasped and snickered. Eyeing The Woman with a side glance as he returned his attention to the computer tracking their target. However, Greg did not seem completely interested. Choosing instead to stay sitting on his bed to asses his property. "Have it your own way." He mumbled.

Sherlock turned around and arched one of his eyebrows at him in consideration. "Lestrade, I know your intellectual prowess leaves much to be desired." He started, and tilted his head sideways when he say the look of outrage pass through the other's face. "But you cannot seriously have already forgotten why we're here." The younger man ended.

Greg stood from the bed and slowly approached the desk. Sherlock stood his ground and smiled innocently at him. Once they reached him, Lestrade fumed but said nothing, instead he grabbed the chair and turned it on axis, sitting backwards astride it and crossing his arms over the back. "Lady Hudson, blah, blah, blah," The strong man recited casually, mocking his friend's upper-class accent. "Magic wand, blah, blah, blah."

Irene was eyeing him expectantly, clearly anticipating Sherlock to bristle at that; everyone knew he hated when people somehow implied his heritage meant he had not really gained his machiavellian reputation on his own, when, in reality, those who witnessed him closely knew that if anything, the fact that his mother had been the The Mistress of Evil seemed to hinder his villainous carrier more than help it. But the boy —true to form— did the unexpected and laughed. That half-hearted chuckle of amusement he sometimes made when something had clearly went exactly the way he wanted.

At that moment, the other two teenagers realised what had happened. Sherlock had played them both, again. Lestrade scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment and The Woman eyed him half-frustrated and half-approving, getting closer to inspect what the computer in the desk was displaying.

"It appears we have a destination." She commented, gesturing where the screen had stopped searching and showed the exact place where they could retrieve that which would give them the power to completely change the way the world worked to their advantage. The boy with the violet curls instantly abandoned his diversion and bent down to inspect the information. Smirking at noting how close Hudson's Wand really was.

"So, when are we going?" Greg impatiently asked from his left. He rose from the chair and shook his brunette hair back in style, grabbing his fingerless gloves from the wooden nightstand and zipping up his red jacket. Irene smiled and she also gracefully removed herself from her seat, they all extremely enjoyed this stage of their usual routine —which they had perfected over their cycles together as the most troublesome gang of The Isle— where the rush of anticipation peaked just before the time of execution came.

"Well," Replied Sherlock, turning the collar resembling dragon neck spikes of his long coat up, as he always did when he was preparing to go into battle. "We did always love midnight heists." He said, and strode out of the room. Yelling to the two trailing miscreants at his back. "Irene, bring the mirror!"

The three of them easily slipped past the guards of the building and went out into the night, with determination written on their faces and nothing more than trouble in their minds.


As they approached the 'Cultural Museum of Wizardry and History' —or the frankly ridiculous acronym often used: CMWH—Sherlock, Irene and Lestrade stood outside a brick tower with a very high window. The structure was something impressive, even from the outside, its high walls and slanted ceilings were akin to moving crystals and the white blocks seemed to somehow absorb the light more than reflect it.

"Irene," Sherlock called, shaking the two others from their contemplation of the massive monument that the Museum was. "Your mirror." He reminded, from behind the tree on which he was leaning to avoid being seen.

Said green eyed girl flashed out the enchanted reflector and quickly whispered the desired object. Maybe technology had been very accurate as of where they could find the Wand, yet the map could only get them so far and the mirror will not only show them the specific storage place, but also the obstacles they may encounter on their path prior to that. "It's at the East wing." She said, looking at her reflection, after spiriting away the instructions. "We'll have to take the main entrance."

"Go big or go home." The younger boy smirked. He slowly walked to the tall double door right at the centre of the main wall, and peered inside its drop-framed windows. Lestrade rushed to his side and curiously looked inside too, but the seductress chose instead to leisurely advance while still looking to their surroundings, in search for any sign of someone else being close by.

What the two boys saw when they interestedly glanced inside through the awkwardly shaped windows was a sight to behold. A grand hall with various paintings lining the walls and an array of different curious and potentially fascinating artefacts displayed throughout the space.

"Is that your mother's wheel?" Greg asked, stifling a giggle at the sight. Right at the middle of the exhibition was a very normal, and not at all impressive spinning thread wheel which his mother had used to cast a more than hundred-cycle slumber curse over those small-minded royals who had dared to dismiss her talents and had banished her from the crown's council. She had apparently let them throw the first punch, but had inevitably retaliated with a skill and force impossible to overpower or even match—if the stories could be completely believed. Turning her into the famed most evil and intelligent being on the magical realms. The only reason she had failed on getting her way for an even longer time was just because all magic was bound to be broken by something as a rule. Someone had yet to encounter any sort of witchcraft which was unable to be made null. The wheel in front of them was proof of that. "It's quite…dorky." Greg said, while Sherlock glared at him.

Irene laughed from behind them and swiftly turned around to see the item in question. "It's magical allocation," The boy countered as his silver eyes were analysing the scene and its possible weaknesses. "It doesn't have to look scary. It just needs to work." He explained, while his two companions looked at each other and shared a knowing rise of eyebrows.

Inside the building, they could observe a guard, sat on a very uncomfortable chair at the corner of the room. There to stop any intruders or robbers from somehow bypassing the obvious magical protection the museum had on its perimeter —basically just what they intended on doing. Although he clearly was there just for show, since no one in the realm actually expected any royal to try and steal something. Sherlock whipped out his new book, the one with which he had spent all afternoon familiarising himself. Expertly flipping the pages until he happened unto something he could use for the situation. He concentrated, closed his eyes and mentally recited the words from the text, yet when he opened them again the guard was still there and nothing had changed at all. "Very impressive." The indigo-haired girl whispered, and the boy's jaw set. The thing with magic was that it didn't really work unless the intention was clear inside your head, no matter how skilled or naturally gifted you were. Sherlock frustratedly shut his eyes and tried again, but there was no improvement.

"Having a hard time there, mate?" Greg added, and giggled as the oblivious officer inside continued watching his program on the television without a care in the world.

"Oh, for evil's sake!" Sherlock challenged and stippled his hands under his chin, swiftly entering his memory storage space he called Mind Palace and started drawing into the light every time he had heard the term of 'magic' being used and envisioning the actions in the invisible room inside his head. Suddenly, an odd set of flares started burning behind his eyelids. As soon as he heard the others gasp, he was brought back to the real world and immediately searched for the source of amazement. It was then when he recognised the guard making his way to the centre of the room, in a very stinted and unnatural way, only to stop right before the wheel and confidently prick his finger on the needle and plummet to the floor; set in an apparently deep sleep.

Sherlock smiled satisfied. Smugly turning to his two stupefied companions and their impressed faces. The boy could feel something course through his veins; a silent, yet powerful bubbling beneath the surface. He had felt it before, but it had never run as freely as it was right then, he found out he quite enjoyed the sensation.

After the surprise had worn down, Irene made for the door, which was obviously locked, bolted and magically protected. No matter how hard the three of them might push it would never budge; the intricately carved wood would stayed closed shut for the remaining hours of the night. Lestrade gestured them to stand back and walked away from the door in clear intent of kicking it open. Sherlock calculated his weight would be able to achieve so, yet it would require either a lot of precision on the first try, or too much time —neither of them things they had in abundance at the moment. The violet-haired boy opted then to use his newfound ability for enchantments and swiftly searched for something appropriate on his leather-bound book just as Lestrade had started running right behind him. Once Sherlock had finished reciting, the doors swung open and Greg was left falling with no wood to offer resistance.

From the floor, the brown-eyed boy watched the others in resentment as they laughed and stepped over him to enter the museum. "Coming?" Sherlock asked to his back, while they were already half-way through the hall. Dusting off his trousers, Greg stood up and quickly followed them. Irene used the mirror to guide them on the corridors and down the stairs.

On their way they passed several chambers containing all sorts of magical and historical relics; detailing back to key changing points in the way their kingdom was built. Signs describing the events and the subjects involved, narrating tales of heroism and bravery and monstrous evil. Sherlock looked at each of them in curiosity, completely aware that most of the items displayed were not actually the originals, but nothing more than a copy or duplicate intended for shadowboxing —the real deals were obviously stored somewhere far more secure— he found the notion of everything he knew, or did not know yet, about why his world was the way it was constricted small inside one sole building fascinating. It didn't seem fair, that the life of a whole kingdom could be packed and showcased so simply, into such a trivial thing.

One of the last rooms they encountered on their path to the basement vault was the 'Hall of Evil' where all the information about the villains and wrong-doers was displayed. The place was heavily decorated; the black, brick walls contrasting perfectly with the simulated green fire that lined the perimeter of the exhibition. There were all sorts of cursed objects and tokens from the most famous of miscreants, yet that was not what made the three teenagers halt. Frozen in their tracks, as if some lingering enchantment had casted its effect in their forms. At the far wall of the hall there was a platform that rose from the floor under a round skylight ceiling, and on top of it there were several statues; models of real life-size of the greatest evil minds the realm had ever seen.

"What the hell?" Greg exclaimed. Eyeing the figure of his father with a confused frown all over his expression. The Great Schemer was holding a snake sceptre and his face was contorted in a vicious snarl. Never mind how tough and ruthless Lestrade was, watching his progenitor like that did not make him feel at ease at all. "I'm never forgetting father's day again." He commented.

At the other end of the room, Irene was experiencing much the same sort of situation. Inspecting the statue of her mother in quiet disbelief, as if she were seeing her face for the first time in her life. It didn't really help that The Adler Queen appeared disheveled in rage, when she rarely had a lock of her blue hair out of place.

The two of them retreated in faux nonchalance, and hurried out of the room with the pretence of not losing time in a room in which they knew the wand was not stored. For Sherlock, of course, it was quite a different experience. He was locked in place with no real hope or knowledge of whether he was ever going to be able to move again. In the exact middle of the stage, right underneath the biggest spotlight, sat a figure of Violet Holmes in all her brutal glory. Clad all in black, with a flowing leather cape much like his own coat covering his back. Her hair glowed purple and her sharp almond-shaped eyes were a piercing lime green that put the flames of the hall to shame; on her head sat what very much looked like a crown with two twisting horns protruding from the base, as if she weren't able to shed off The Dragon even when in her complete human form. Sherlock swallowed and took a tentative step towards it, not daring to move more than a bit at once. It had been thirteen sun-cycles since he had last saw her, and those first three cycles of his life were admittedly not entirely clear or true on the details that used to make his mother. Staring at her now made all sorts of old fears and apprehensions come bubbling up to the surface of his body. He looked at her face as if she were going to deliver him all the answers of every doubt stored inside his soul. Of every time he had wondered who —if not what— he really was.

Every villain had a silver plaque placed at the bottom of their pedestal, indicating the name of each one and detailing the deeds for which they had been charged; some of them had quite a big paragraph the more you approached to the centre. However, the plaque at his mother's feet just read 'Violet Holmes. Mistress of Evil.' That, and nothing else. As if it were easier to just summarise instead of listing each and every crime she had committed. The boy was stuck, his breathing coming in shallow gasps. "Sherlock, let's go." He heard Irene call from behind him, but it did nothing to deter him from his cryogenic immobility.

He remembered so little, yet so much about her. Her soft voice making an impossible mark on his mind. Her cruel lessons. Yet he failed to determine whether he actually could reminisce all of those things or if he had conjured them up as a toddler and then forgotten there was really no truth to the memory. Much like he had failed to 'remember' correctly how the sun had looked before the dome had been set upon the island. The filaments of that night he had engraved inside his very being, the horrible sounds, the fear he had felt, but what he simply couldn't forget, no matter how hard he tried, were the blue eyes of his big brother, so very filled with despair, the very last time he saw him, before he had gotten lost into thin air, the day he was left completely alone in the world.

His eyes took on a mixture of enraged with an edge of confusion. No matter whether he understood it or not, this is how his mother used to be and how he was going to grow up to be; the usual satisfying taste he got at such a thought turned just slightly sour at the scene in front of his eyes, as if the task seemed daunting all of a sudden.

Taking a moment to calm himself, he breathed slowly, attempting to bring forth all his confidence and resolve. After this exercise, the balance on his psyche appeared to have mostly been restored and that was when he spotted something he had anticipated even less than a statue of his dead parent: behind Violet, there was a figure that could be seen peeking from behind her back, slightly crouching but very much dignified. The dark, dead eyes of Jim Moriarty seeming to stare straight into his soul. The intensity of his sight achieved by two empty, crystal marbles, Sherlock knew not whether to be disturbed or impressed at such craftsmanship. His plaque read several different crimes, not short of murder, treason and flaying; but what really caught the violet-haired boy's attention was how little information there actually was of him committing any of the accused crimes. Just as if the deeds were more stories and rumours rather than witnessed affairs.

Sherlock didn't need any sort of proof, of course. He had lived first-hand how incredibly machiavellian Moriarty could be when provoked —or even when not provoked— and he actually admired his inventive mind. The boy learned every little mad lesson he could and had made of mischief a daily routine, always attempting to do the worst he could; yet he always seemed to fall short in the eyes of the villain, the brown eyes looking at him with such exasperation within. Flashes of memories floating in front of his gaze. Reminisces of an incident he had tried to bury deep inside his Mind Palace. That time when he had disappointed James in a way he never had before.

He was eleven cycles old at the time, with big dreams of becoming a great and ruthless character. A big arson was taking place at the middle of the streets, half of The Isle had been set aflame, and Sherlock had never seen something so bright and so mesmerising. Moriarty had spread his outrage at being challenged throughout the whole city. Demonstrating in the worst way he was not someone whom you could attempt to oppose.

It had all seemed fine at the beginning; just the regular misbehaviour and sins you learned to expect while living on the island. But soon enough, young Sherlock could start noticing some unusual things, a break in the pattern; and he couldn't help but being curious by the reason. The violet-haired boy sneaked through alleyways until he managed to follow Moriarty just to end at the high edge of a mountain cliff. The villain had been chasing down a member of the Ricoletti family, the one stupid enough to try and antagonise him —because who could ever want Moriarty as an enemy?— and once he had him cornered just a step away from certain death, his gun trained to him, he stopped. The figure of the man was trembling in fear, at the distance where Sherlock was hiding he could see it perfectly.

They exchanged a few words that the boy had not been able to discern; but suddenly, James turned around and, with such a casual manner he invited Sherlock to come closer, to take a field seat where the action was taking place. Said boy had hesitated at first, scratching his arm in apprehension, no matter how excited he felt of being able to partake in a serious act of rotten exploits. He hurried to the side of his tutor, big eyes and lanky limbs shaking from the adrenaline of uncertainty. However, what Moriarty said to him had shattered any illusion of his role in the scene.

"Push him." He had ordered. Smiling benignly, and placing a heavy hand on the boy's shoulder.

"What?" Sherlock had asked, perplexed by what was being asked of him.

Moriarty theatrically rolled his eyes in annoyance, halting just as he was about to make him uncomfortable. "Push him." He intoned, as if he were the performer of the softest lullaby. Softly encouraging him to just do the simplest thing he had asked.

"But-" Sherlock hesitated and turned to look at the man still crying, kneeling on the floor of that high precipice. He remembered stretching out his hand to the victim's chest. Just shy of touching him. It was obvious James did these things all the time —or he had someone else do them for him— you'd have to be a moron not to know, but the violet-haired boy, just fresh out of his stumbling cycles, had foolishly never thought to imagine himself in such situations. His young brain, even if sharp beyond his cycles, could not comprehend why it had to be him the one to do it. Jim was clearly the more experienced one and would not waste them precious time wondering how one went about those things.

He had clearly taken too long, because Jim was growing impatient behind him. "Ugh," The criminal started. "Well, he's not going to do it himself." he commented, and then twisted around to regard Thomas Ricoletti, "Will you?" He asked, a disinterested colour to his voice.

The kneeling man stayed silent, his hands quivering behind his head and his chest bouncing as he whimpered in terror. He was supposed to be a formidable villain, but against the force of James Moriarty no one ever seemed to be able to battle for long.

James turned around again, eyeing Sherlock in expectation. Focusing his gaze at the other's expression to recognise what was going on inside his head. The boy's hand retreated, just a little, but for the older man it was all the proof he required.

Sighing in disappointment, Moriarty lowered the gun. "Ordinary," He muttered under his breath and motioned for the boy to stand back. He gyrated on his heel in dismissiveness. Thomas' sniffles were resounding at the empty space of the mountain, and for a very brief moment Sherlock thought Moriarty was going to let him crawl back into his cave. However, after pausing for a moment the man quickly raised his hand and pushed. "Aaand he's gone." He mocked, a smile painting the whole of his face. Taking one last look back and leaving the boy behind.

Sherlock's hands had been shaking for a whole new different reason then. Anger at his hesitation to do an act so vital in the lives of deviants and miscreants; how was he supposed to emulate and transcend his mother's legacy if he failed to do such a trivial thing as to giving a little nudge to someone who was already good as dead?

After that, he struggled to be as mad and rotten as he was able —and he was very able— yet that incident had never left him. He carried it around like a tattoo of shame. The fact that he had failed to do the same since then on two different occasions was of no help. It was not because he was afraid, or because of some misguided moral compass that he felt he should refrain, —he had no cares for what is right— he just hadn't done it yet. Another, more devilish alternative had always presented itself, and Sherlock was nothing if not throughout. He was aware that 'test' was still waiting for him when he returned to the Island, when The Wand was obtained and all of that was over. And now, he saw the means of how so close he could almost grab them.

Once he dragged himself away from the chamber of evil things, he encountered Greg and Irene who were already standing outside a large vault, awaiting their own mastermind to appear and break into it. Shaking off the previous feeling of inadequacy, Sherlock smirked, turned up the collar on his leather coat and strode over to do what he did best.

The safe was opened in a surprisingly short amount of time, and the three of them found themselves inside one of the most guarded places of the kingdom, among all the enchanted and perilous artefacts. Passing some interesting objects, they stumbled upon the main event. Finally: Lady Hudson's magic wand. The wand was suspended. Floating inside a beam of bright blue light at the centre of the vault. The magic swirling around it a clear suggestion to back off. The teens were gathered around it trying to figure out how to retrieve it, but just before the violet-haired boy could whip out his book of spells and attempt something to break the obvious force field, Lestrade extended his hand towards the prize and a loud siren started sounding as soon his hand made contacted with the light.

Irene cursed loudly and started running towards the exit, the other two right behind them. Sherlock loathed to leave the wand behind, but his newly acquired magical skills were inexperienced at best and he doubted he would be able to triumph against the group of officers that would be swarming the place in a few moments.

"A force field and a siren?" Greg commented as they climbed up the stairs two at a time. "Seems a bit excessive." He laughed.

Just as they were approaching the way out, Irene suddenly turned away and went to stand right in front of the controls were the guard had been sitting, who was now deeply sleeping on the floor possibly for the rest of eternity —Sherlock didn't know the duration of the spells he was casting yet, he literally had just gotten the ability that morning—. Confused, the other troublemakers tried to catch her attention but she just waved them off and picked up the phone resting on the desk. "Hello?" She softly said into the speaker, using that voice Sherlock had witnessed at work a thousand times before. "One second, dear." She appeared to look for something on the notes and papers scattered over the surface. "No honey, false alarm, it was a malfunction on the circuit. Yeah? Okay, bye." She hung up, to the astonishment of her friends. She strutted past them and walked out of the museum with a huge grin on her face. "Men are so easy." The girl declared.

"Brilliant, Greg." Sherlock grumbled in annoyance once they were out of danger of being discovered. "Now we have to go to school in the morning."


John's chambers were as they had always been, ever since he was a little boy dreaming of being a knight, he had kept this very room. Yes, as the next in line for the throne he was able —and should— choose any one of the other thirty eight rooms of the castle that he wanted; but he found his childhood bedroom was where he felt most comfortable. It was also where he did his best thinking. The big window had always framed most of his dreams as he woke up, and now that he was older he would be sorry to see that gone.

He was standing outside his balcony, thoughtfully tracing the patterns on the stone rail. He looked out into the night, staring at the twinkling lights across the kingdom contrasting to the island across the sea plunged into darkness. He sighed. The events of the day had left him hopeful, painting a smile on his face that he prayed would last him a few weeks.

"Today seemed successful." Came the strong voice of his girlfriend from behind him. He turned around and smiled at her while Mary approached him. She wrapped close the blue, light jumper she was wearing. "Are you happy?" She asked, a hint of restraint in her movements as she came to stand next to him in the balcony.

The prince was startled by the question, which was no surprise since his girlfriend was usually really perceptive. "What? No." He said. "Not yet. They still have to live here, give them a chance to see the world from another angle." He explained, but kept looking at the vast open air, as if he were already envisioning the outcome. Mary was not entirely encouraged by such behaviour. "Right now, the only difference we've made is making them change zipcodes." He said.

"You think they will?" Asked the princess, probably fearing the answer she knew she would get from John. "Change their ways, I mean. Learn how to behave like us?" She clarified, running one hand through her short hair and completely ignoring the sight in front of her, choosing instead to stare at John's class ring on her finger. It had been childish, she supposed, John offering it to her as if they still lived on the Dragon Ages; yet she couldn't stop staring at it.

"They don't have to be like us, Mary." John answered truthfully. Making sure to pronounce every word perfectly like he had the power to make it so just because he said it. His strong hands were gripping the rail in excitement and determination; the princess knew then it would never be easy to dissuade him from this one.

"Why?" She queried. Genuinely curious as to what exactly John hoped it would happen with this backwards situation; people on the Isle were there for a reason, and she was sure nothing could ever come out of it that had not already been touched by corruption. She feared that was the last thing their realm, already in the brink of crumbling, needed.

John didn't respond, his blue eyes were still trained on a distant far away land; but for Mary, that was answer enough.